


Longing

by Crowoxy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Bentley, Crowley showing insanity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gets mentioned, Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe I tried to keep the cup broken, I know my heart is breaking from that, M/M, Somewhat, What Is Wrong With ME, but the tea cup gets better!, season 8 AU, season 8 somewhat spoilers, shattering of tea cups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:08:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowoxy/pseuds/Crowoxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley sat alone in his office, unwanted emotions rolling through him like a tsunami as one of the few remaining things that linked him to his past lay shattered in front of him. Good Omens Crossover, slight spoilers if one hasn't been watching Season 8</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Supernatural Crowley and Good Omens Crowley are one and the same here. Don't take this seriously, I was having a bad day and writing just made things a bit more bearable. Hope you enjoy it anyways!

Crowley sat down heavily in his chair, his fingers grabbing forlornly at a cup of tea, ginger spiced with a hint of chime, just how Az- just how one of his associates used to enjoy it.

He had just gotten back from that stupid family that used to live in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, surrounded by nothing but pasture and horses.  _Bloody idiots the lot of them were_ , Crowley had muttered to his accomplice, some no name demon that thirsted to win Crowley's favor. Fat chance of that ever happening if the bloke was just that unremarkable.

Crowley carefully set down the mug, clasping his fingers and resting his forehead on the knuckles, forcing his breathes to remain even and steady.

_Those dumbasses killed her!_  A voice shrieked inside his head.

"Shut up." Crowley whispered.

_They killed her, last beautiful reminder of the past, of Aziraphale, of ducks, of lunches, of happiness!_  There was something akin to despair growing in Crowley's chest. He needed the stupid voice in his head to be quiet, to shut up, and let him  _think_ , to plan for whatever moves those so-called heroes of the world would consider doing next. He couldn't be burdened with the past. It was over, it was done, and nothing would change time.

_I want her back! I want him back! I want my plants, my things. I want to be happy._

The voice sounded close to tears, a feeling Crowley hurriedly pushed down and locked away.

His loyal hellhound, Growley, had been brutally gutted from her jaw down to her belly, the liquid that made up her insides splattered almost poetically on the ground. She had still been alive, barely, whimpering pathetically, unable to move or die since the blood that run through the veins had no purpose of keeping a nonexistent heart beating; it just kept a hellhound's form as a physical entity. Crowley had knelt down on the ground, his companion banished to some part of hell to keep him busy, and pulled his pet's, -his  _friend's_ -, head on his lap, whispering nonsense and stroking her head.

More than four thousand years, she had been at his side. Almost five thousand years of constant companionship all wiped away because of two psychopathic brothers. With a heavy heart, Crowley uttered the spell to undo the binding, to let the body disassemble itself back into the vapors of the deep caverns of hell.

Now Crowley sat in his chair, his fingers grabbing at his hair, trying to quell a voice, his  _own_ voice that cried out his doubts, angers, and fears.

His hatred of what he had become and was becoming.

Crowley had never been made to rule. To tempt and manipulate, yes, those were his original delegations, but never to command others. Never to accept and become even more corrupted by the taste of having  _power_  over others. It made him rash, illogical, and arrogant.

He was becoming as bad as Lucifer himself, and the Devil himself was made to be an arrogant twat.

Fingernails gorged deep into his scalp breaking skin, his limbs shaking with a need to break something, to  _hurt_  and in the most painful way imaginable —

_Come now, you're making a scene._  A different voice this time, more familiar than his own and one that he had been longing to hear for  _ages_.

_That's it, calm down, my dear._

"Shut up, you are not real. You're dead or worse, quit telling me what to do when you aren't even here!"

_Of course I am not here, you know that already._

Of course Crowley knew that. Knew that the smirk Alastair had painted on his face when he came to tell Crowley that he had helped him with a personal problem that had been around for millennia was the demon's way of laughing at him, especially when Aziraphale had called him barely minutes later.

Crowley could still remember the screams, still picture Aziraphale's precious bookshelves crashing as angels stormed the second hand bookstore that the angel had called home, dragging an unwilling ex- Principality by his locks back to heaven, never to let back down to Earth.

Crowley hadn't heard from him since.

_That doesn't mean you should ignore me, dear._

"Yes, it does, actually. You are just a figment of my ever growing insanity, come to torture me for some reason or the other. Now that I've uncovered your dirty little secret, get the sodding hell out!" Crowley bellowed, his voice echoing in the empty room.

It was blissfully silent for a few moments.

_Very well. But you really should drink your tea before it gets cold. Nasty stuff, that._

Crowley threw the mug hard against the wall; fragments of ceramic flying from the force and the liquid inside staining the floor.

He keened, misery surrounding him.

The mug had been a gift from Aziraphale nearly forty-seven years ago for an anniversary of their Arrangement. It was the last thing the demon had of the angel that had provided him comfort throughout the long millennia of being stationed to Earth.

He began to pick up all of the pieces, ignoring the cuts and gashes his hands were receiving from his hurried gathering.

Even if everything else in his life had been shattered, this was one thing he might be able to put back together.

Maybe.

 

 


	2. What Was Broken Can Be Fixed By Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation after a very long time. Crowley is down in the dumps, Sam and Dean are on a mission, Castiel comes to a realization, and somewhere there is an angel who is missed. A somewhat AU of the Season 8 Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know its been a while, but sometimes a random encouragement goes a long way. Thank you Daggora Crossblood (Shadow124) for inspiring me to get off my lazy butt and write this. I'm not sure at how good this is, it has been a while since I've watched Supernatural, but my love for Crowley and Good Omens has not decreased in the slightest.   
> Also, I apologize if my characterizations of Dean, Sam, and Cas were a little off. I'm not very confident with their voices. Enjoy!!

Somehow, hearing the Winchesters proclaim their surrender in his ears didn’t make Crowley feel any better. He turned off his phone, dropping the device in his pocket, leaving Jodi Mills to cough and gasp in the bathroom as he walked out the restaurant door.

 

_It’s not nice of you to leave someone in distress like that, dear._

 

“I’m not a saint like you, Zira.” Crowley muttered under his breath. Perhaps a few weeks earlier, Crowley would have been steadfastly ignoring the voice as a dream never to come true, but now…. Now what was the point of pretending he wasn’t insane? It’s not like the one being who he actually cared thought of him was here to judge him. Crowley would have loved it if he was.

 

_There’s a reason I’m an angel, not a saint, Crowley. Even you claimed I was at least a bit of a bastard worth knowing_.

 

“Past tense, angel. You aren’t around anymore.” Crowley kicked a pebble laying in his path. “Maybe things would have been different if you still were.”

 

His delusion said nothing.

 

Kicking the pebble once again, hard enough to fly into the brush along the side of the sidewalk this time, Crowley started walking. He was already in Sioux Falls, barely a few miles away from the designated meeting point for the exchange between him and the two annoying hunters at Bobby Singer’s old car junk shop. His feet could manage a walk rather than instant teleportation.

 

By dawn, Crowley had managed to walk around the entire twice, shuffling along the small roads and one major highway. It hours before the Winchesters would arrive; yet Crowley found himself sitting forlornly in the passenger seat of one of the abandoned cars of the junkyard.

 

“Never figured you would have a Bentley in this old place, Singer.” Crowley let his fingers roam across the dashboard, almost afraid to touch the radio, in case it would miraculously turn on, which used to be an everyday occurrence – miracles that is-, and a best of the Queens album would start playing. Which was ridiculous, he hadn’t been sitting in the car long enough for the music to turn into a Queens’ song.

 

“Hey, Zira. Remember when we would drive my car around Soho? You always made sure I wouldn’t hit any of those slow moving pedestrians in the way as I drove.” Crowley wasn’t expecting his imaginary Aziraphale voice to reply, but it still somehow managed to bring up what should be foreign feelings of hurt in his chest. He leaned forward, crossing his arms on top of the dashboard and burying his head in the crook of his elbows.

 

What was he even doing anymore? Juliet was gone, _Aziraphale_ was gone, and here he was pulling out all his tricks from a hat to save Hell, a place he loathed, just because he had the smart idea to be ambitious for a day.

 

Damn the responsibilities keeping him here. Right now, he would gladly let Abaddon have Hell, as godforsaken as it was, just to never move from this spot again. She would massacre everything and see it burnt to ashes, leaving nothing but smoke and rubble in her wake.

 

_Good, it would be nothing more than what Hell deserved_. Crowley thought viciously. For six thousand years, it had been Earth, which had been his home, never Hell. Hell was just that place that he was forced to go to for work; work which he enjoyed with pride because Crowley had been _bloody fantastic_ at his job of temptation and slowly tainting hundreds of souls at a time. And he barely had to do anything to let it happen.

 

He just wanted things to go back to being the same as they were. With Crowley and Aziraphale in England, dreary as it was, both thwarting the other and then walking around hand in hand with the exhilarating mess that was humanity. Heaven and Hell were so busy glaring at each other that they had ignored the humans and everything had been just fine.

 

Crowley had never liked change.  And if Hell was shut down, change would be imminent and unavoidable.

 

Hours passed and Crowley didn’t move. The sun had risen directly in front of Crowley, and warmth pressed down where the light hit his shoulders. He would have curled up in a tiny ball if that didn’t mean extra movement. He didn’t sleep, just silently moped, waiting for the day to be done and over with, while also hoping tomorrow would never come. Annie lied, who could ever love tomorrow?

 

“Where is that bastard?” It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes later that Crowley heard the all too familiar gruff voice of Dean Winchester nearby. And so the other party has finally arrived. Crowley was too weary for one of his dramatic entrances, and settled for simply teleporting out of the car and in front of the Winchester brothers, with nary a stray string on his coat.

 

“Greetings, Squirrel.” Crowley plastered a smile on his face. “And –“ There was someone strolling up behind Sam and Dean. Someone who even at this distance was achingly familiar and yet _shouldn’t_ be. He was imagining him that was all. Crowley’s mind had finally cracked and now he was seeing hallucinations as well as hearing voices. That was the only possible explanation.

 

As Crowley continued staring into the distance, eyes blown wide and breaths starting to come in with a tinge of panic, Sam and Dean glanced behind them. Whatever it was that caused their resident King of Hell to trail off a sentence and ignore them had to be important.

 

“Who the fuck is that?” Sam squinted, the stranger seemed to almost blur in the sun.

 

“ _You can see him?_ ” Crowley strangled out.

 

“Dude, are you okay?” Dean disliked the demon, he was an utter bastard, but hell if he hated something acting unpredictably even more. And right now, Crowley was at all time low of acting like his normal suave, flash bastard self. “Yeah, we can see whoever that is. They are _literally_ right there.”

 

Crowley stumbled backwards, eyes glued on the figure walking closer with every step. “No, no. That’s not possible. He can’t be here. _He can’t be here_. He’s not real. Not real. Not real.” Crowley continued to mutter and take hurried steps back, his audience long forgotten. His head was moving rapidly to each side and limbs were trembling so badly, Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if the demon managed to combust himself into dust from shock. That would solve one of their many problems for sure.

 

Sam pulled out his knife, holding up so the stranger could see the blade as they came right up to where he was standing. “Who are you?” Sam demanded.

 

The stranger smiled, curly blonde hair waving slightly in a nonexistent wind. He was portly, wearing a knitted sweater and some strange material made into pants. If Sam was honest with himself, the dude looked like a librarian straight out of a clichéd high school movie. Not very threatening in the slightest. Sam gripped the knife tighter.

 

“Pardon me, my dears. I must go see to an old friend.”

 

“You mean this old dirt bag here?” Dean moved up closer to his brother.

 

The stranger tilted his head to the side, in an almost familiar fashion, his smile never leaving his face. “If you mean Crowley, then yes. Please stand aside.”

 

“We’re not letting you anywhere near this scumbag. We have business with him first.” Dean squared his shoulders, his hand itching to grab something and stab this dude with it. Beside him, Sam raised the knife, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

 

“I wasn’t asking.” He hadn’t moved a muscle, but there was a flash of light, which blinded the Winchesters and a wind passed between them. It was only several long seconds later, when they were blinking the spots out of their eyes and managed to swivel their heads around that they noticed the stranger walking steadily towards the demon. Crowley had managed to back himself into the door of a nearby van and collapsed to his knees; his eyes were squeezed shut and his shaking hands covered his ears.

 

“Dean, I can’t move!” Sam tried to run, tried to move to push the asshole away before he did who knows what to Crowley. They still _needed_ him for the third trial to close Hell, they could not afford this random something taking the demon away before then.

 

“Goddammit!” Dean shouted. “How did that shithead do this?” Their heads could turn, but any attempt to move their distal limbs was impossible.

 

“Dean, call Cas!”

 

Dean cursed again, this was not how he imagined this day going. “Cas, we’ve caught ourselves in a bind.” Profound bond his ass, Cas was just telepathic. “Get over here now and help us!”

 

“Please, Cas.” Sam muttered next to Dean.

 

It must have been record time before the two heard the familiar sound of flapping wings and Cas appeared behind them.

 

“I really hope what you’ve called me for was important.” The angel sighed. “I was busy, you know.”

 

“Yeah well, sorry to be a pain in your wings, Cas! But me and brother are a little stuck with some unknown dude going and taking our hit!”

 

“By hit, you mean Crowley, yes?” Even after several years of working with the Winchesters still caused Castiel to be confused with their terminology. “And what do you mean stuck?”

 

“I mean stuck, stuck, as in not going anywhere, feet glued to the ground. Can you help us or not?”

 

“When do I not?” With a snap of his fingers, Sam and Dean fell forward, their limbs locking before managing to fall flat on their faces.

 

“Thanks, man.” Cas nodded at Sam’s thanks.

 

“So how did this happen?” It wasn’t everyday that his allies, friends really, found themselves trapped by an angel spell, even when pursuing Crowley.

 

“That bastard.” Dean growled, jerking his head in the direction of Crowley and the stranger. The blonde was kneeling next to the demon, hands hovering over his head in hesitation. Castiel peered and let out a small gasp as he felt a wave of familiar grace. It wasn’t familiar in that Castiel had spent eons basking in its presence, but in the way that all angels knew the feel of the Principalities of Heaven, especially those who used to once guard the gates.

 

“Oh. It can’t be.” Castiel breathed.

 

“Cas?” Dean and Sam were confused, of course they would be. How could they have known? But with how he was kneeling next to Crowley…

 

“That’s his _friend_?” Crowley, when Castiel was in an agreement with Crowley and they had spent that year working together, the demon would make mention of a previous arrangement he used to have with another angel. Castiel simply assumed he had been lying, as demons do, or exaggerating. “Crowley was in an arrangement with the former Guardian of the Eastern Gate?”

 

“ _What?_ ” At Dean’s shout, the angel turned around and smiled at the group. Castiel could do nothing but stare back in return.

 

“Aziraphale, principality, former guardian of Eden and then demoted as an agent of Earth for unknown reasons.” Castiel recited. “He had been living amongst the humans since the beginning but had been recalled to Heaven twenty years ago. I don’t know why.”

 

“So what does that have to do with Crowley?” Sam’s brow furrowed, as it often did when he was faced with an unknown problem.

 

Castiel could have laughed in disbelief. “I was stupid and never realized. Crowley, its even the same name. How did I not figure this out?” He shook his head. “Crowley was the name of Aziraphale’s demonic counterpart, Hell’s own agent on Earth to combat Heaven’s. As part of the Garrison with orders to head to Earth, we were given the names of the major opponents who resided on the surface. Crowley was on that list. I just never figured that this Crowley was the same as that one.”

 

“So what do we do? Just let them hang out with each other?” Dean looked thunderous. “Damnit Cas! We have a job to do! Shut down hell, save the world and all that jazz! Remember? We had a _plan_!”

 

“You had a plan. I was busy with something else. I’m not going to fight another one of my brothers if I don’t have to, Dean.” Castiel said firmly. “Perhaps whatever it is Aziraphale is planning on doing will help.”

 

Crowley could hear the idiots shouting something unintelligible a distance away, even with him clamping his ears shut as tightly as he could. Zira could not be here. Everyone had just gone crazy on him.

 

“Crowley?” That voice, that voice which was a perfect replica; it hurt to listen to it knowing it wasn’t real.

 

“Crowley, dear.” There was a hand just a inch away from his hair. _Go away, come closer, go away_. Everything was jumbled up and twisted; Crowley didn’t know what was real. He could feel the warmth of the hand right above his head, but his mind refused to believe it was there. Refused to believe that the angel in front of him was real. It couldn’t be.

 

“You aren’t real. You’re dead, Aziraphale. You’ve been dead. This isn’t real.” Something deep inside his chest ached and bruised; it was messy and full of pain and Crowley wanted it gone.

 

“Oh, my dear. I’m very much alive.” A wistful sigh and warmth, so much warmth, as the copy, no Aziraphale, engulfed him in a hug. His imagination couldn’t come up with this level of warmth and love coming from the being in front of him; as a demon he was incapable of doing such a thing.

 

“Az-Aziraphale?” Crowley whimpered, his eyes finally opening to see a smile he never thought he would see again on the angel’s face in front of him.

 

“Yes, Crowley! This is fantastic, my dear!” Crowley had forgotten how sweet hearing his angel’s endearments were. The demon threw his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, laughing or sobbing he couldn’t tell the difference; he was just glad Aziraphale was back with him.

 

“How are you here?” Crowley asked once he managed to collect himself. If Aziraphale’s smile seemed to dim, Crowley didn’t notice.

 

“Naomi…. Died. And then my door opened and I didn’t wait around to be found by anyone else. But let’s not talk about that now.” Aziraphale stood, carefully dragging Crowley up with him. “We can discuss that and your terrible idea of being the King of Hell later. After some wine and a few books. I had forgotten Heaven was so against alcohol as well as books that aren’t the Correctly Published Bible.”

 

Aziraphale reached into a pocket, not big enough to hold the package it contained, but neither of them paid it any mind and handed a carefully wrapped box to his demon.

 

Crowley tilted his head in confusion. “What is this?”

 

“Open it, you silly demon and find out. I found it laying in pieces on your table when I stopped by your flat.” Crowley pulled the box open and took out the mug sitting inside, his mug that had been smashed into little pieces all those months ago.

 

“Aziraphale…” Crowley couldn’t breathe, not that he needed to, but still. “You…how…what?”

 

“Never thought I would see you be speechless over something, my dear.” Aziraphale laughed. “I hope you don’t mind. You used to love that mug, so when I saw it was all messed up, I just miracled it together.”

 

“You crazy bastard, of course I don’t mind.”

 

“Crowley, you’re crying. Did you know that?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Zira. Demons can’t cry.”

 

“Well then, I would recommend not touching your cheeks for a little while.” Crowley laughed, and felt some sort of stickiness on his cheeks. Bloody hell, was he really crying? This was something new.

 

“Come on, Crowley. Let’s go home.” At Crowley’s nod, Aziraphale flapped open his wings and took off, his demon holding his hand tightly the entire way.

 

Neither saw fit to look back at the two humans and one angel left behind in the junkyard, two cursing up a storm as the angel and demon left, while the one in the long coat smiled up at the sky.

#### 


End file.
